like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands
by blueinkedbones
Summary: aka the one where derek's fucktastrophe of terrible season one luck gets smashed together with a college au.
1. Chapter 1

Stiles finds Derek in the library, bloody, eyes glazed. His clothes are dirty, torn, sneaker print welts on his palms. Stiles really needs to throw up.

Instead, he barricades the door and calls his dad. After a few moments, he shoulders out of his jacket, covers Derek up. He knows he shouldn't–it's screwing with the crime scene, Derek's a freaking _crime scene_ –but he can't stand to see Derek left like that, exposed like that. He sits by Derek, after, shoves his hand through his hair.

Pretty soon the door's rattling, and Stiles checks, is relieved to hear his dad's voice. Dad gives the room a quick visual sweep, focuses in on Derek, on Stiles' jacket draped over him. He sighs, rubs his eyes.

"I had to, Dad," Stiles says. His voice sounds alien, faraway.

Derek stirs a little, groans quietly.

"Son?" Dad says softly, stepping closer.

"Derek," Stiles says wretchedly. "Derek Hale."

"Derek," Dad says gently. "Derek, can you hear me?"

Derek's eyes open: they're steadfastly dry, his jaw jutting.

"Yeah," he says. His voice sounds quiet, too soft for this. "I don't know what happened."

"That's what we're gonna find out," Dad vows. "but I'm gonna need your help."

* * *

At the hospital there's a small room, stiff cushioned chairs, no family. Derek hasn't had any since the fire that killed his parents and little sister, since Laura's suicide. But he has Stiles. He has Stiles. No way Derek's gonna go through this alone.

"What do you remember?" Dad asks, when Derek's up to talking.

"Felt weird," Derek says. The corner of his lip trembles, and he clenches his jaw tight, breathes through his nose for a while, nostrils flaring. Stiles picks at a loose thread in his jeans, carefully not seeing the tear that slips past anyway, swift and silent.

"What did," Dad says. "Did you drink something? Take something?"

"Had a beer," Derek says. "I know," he adds, face heating. He's barely nineteen, five months older than Stiles, a sophomore by a handful of days and last year's loss of the last person he had to rely on.

Dad shakes his head. "This isn't your fault, Derek."

Another tear Stiles refuses to see falls from Derek's lashes and clings to his chin.

"Nothing's ever my fault," Derek says, and for a long time after he just covers his face and shudders.

* * *

"You shouldn't be here," Derek tells Stiles once Dad's gone. His eyes are raw, voice hoarse and tight.

"You shouldn't be alone," Stiles says.

Derek's mouth twists, eyes shuttering. "You don't get extra credit for babysitting."

"No," Stiles says, affronted. "I'm worried about you, man. I want you to be okay, that's all."

"That's all," Derek says faintly. "You ever think maybe I shouldn't be?"

"Who's telling you that?" Stiles asks, ready to get his bat and go right now. Just _see_ if he's bluffing.

"Why'm I the only one left?" Derek mutters. "I'm the only one who did anything–" He stops, inhales sharp and shaky.

"Derek," Stiles says, horror flooding him. "Whatever you did, if it was an accident–"

"I'm an accident," Derek says. "Everything i've ever done, or said. I told my mom to leave me alone. I told Laura…"

"Laura wasn't your fault," Stiles says.

"What was, according to you?" Derek demands. "Or your Dad. You're both so sure–"

"So tell me," Stiles says. "Tell me what happened to you."

"Nothing," Derek rasps, in the worst lie Stiles has ever heard.

"Derek," Stiles says.

"I don't know," Derek says. "I'm–healed, okay, I'm not hurt anymore. There wont be any bruises."

"On your hands," Stiles says, but Derek waves them impatiently, and it's true: the tread patterns are gone.

"They can still do a kit," Stiles says uncertainly. In the dim light of that library they'd looked like dark bruises, too stark to just disappear. "You sure heal fast."

"My superpower," Derek says dryly. "I'm not doing a–a kit, I can't do that."

"Your clothes," Stiles suggests. "They were messed around too, there must be be DNA somewhere."

"Can't catch smoke," Derek says softly, almost to himself.

"You can catch people," Stiles says. "My dad can. He'll keep you safe."

Derek huffs, like he's skeptical. Stiles raises his eyebrows defensively.

"He can't," Derek says. "People like me–Things like me. We can't…"

"You're not a _thing_ ," Stiles says viciously. "You're a person. A really _good_ person."

"Uh huh," Derek says faintly, and closes his eyes just before the tears slip down.

* * *

They take the Jeep back to Derek's dorm; Stiles eyes Derek worriedly before dropping him off. "You sure–"

"You can't put a sniper on my roof, Stiles," Derek says tiredly. "I'll be fine."

"But you'll call me," Stiles prods. "If–if you feel weird, or if something's not right, you know I can come get you in two minutes. Maybe less."

"Stiles," Derek says, impatient. "Let it go. I've lived here for almost two years. I know how to find the door by myself."

"Even my dad takes backup," Stiles says, thinking: sixteen months. "Doesn't mean he can't handle–Alright, alright," Stiles tells Derek's scowl. "Pressure off. I'm just saying… There's options, you know? People who give a crap. Me."

Derek looks at him for a long moment.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I know."

Then he goes inside.


	2. Chapter 2

All that afternoon Stiles sketches sneaker treads. He takes to glancing at people's heels as they slouch in their seats and scrape their shoes on the linoleum while the professor clicks through slide after slide. The toe's a church window, rows of jagged teeth below it; Stiles outlines his best sketch in darker and darker ink until his pen cuts through the paper and leaves him a little cut-out he shoves behind the netting of his looseleaf's side pocket. His own soles are just thin rows of exes, or diamonds, and they barely leave a mark, even when he stomps on his palm back in his room, and flails sideways, cursing.

He'll go see Dad, he decides, have him run it through the FBI database. They can find this–whoever, whoever thinks they can just do that and not get drawn and fucking quartered for it. Whoever convinced Derek that it's hopeless, useless to even bother.

Derek's hands are wider than Stiles', but barely; the church window toe treads were exactly centered on his palms, rows of teeth across his wrists. Stiles hates the mental picture that comes with the calculation–someone standing over Derek, holding him down, while–Stiles doesn't dare think about it. It's not fair to Derek to see it so clear. It feels like peeping, like standing in a corner watching it happen, even if that's the furthest thing from the truth.

He skips dinner, heads back to the library. Derek was tucked away by the Russian literature section, stunned and bleary eyed and in pain. Stiles stalks the spot for hours, hounding anyone who comes by: Where were you? Were you here? Did you see–

But even the biggest nerds don't come back for Dostoevsky two days in a row, and the sit-in librarian is Jackson Whittemore, who raises his eyebrows and says, "This about your boyfriend?"

"Someone got hurt," Stiles says, struggling not to punch him in his smug face. "Last night, in Russian literature. Someone had to see something."

"Sorry to ruin your Nancy Drew fantasy," Jackson snipes, "but some of us have real jobs."

"You wouldn't know what a real job was if it knocked your teeth out," Stiles says coolly.

"We can't all be pass-arounds," Jackson says, and something pounds into Stiles' chest, settles thick in his throat. He leans forward, eyes sharp.

"What did you say?"

"Territorial," Jackson says. "You really thought you were special, huh."

"You know what happened to him," Stiles says. "You know. And you're gonna tell me."

"The hottest chick you've ever seen happened to him," Jackson laughs. "What exactly do you think got hurt, huh? More like a cramp, if you ask me. Too much of a workout."

"What'd she look like," Stiles says.

"You're really not giving up on this." Jackson smirks. "She was tall. Blonde. About a thousand times classier than your hooker Hale."

"I will punch you," Stiles warns, throat burning.

"I'll sue," Jackson says. "You'll be buried so far under bills you'll need every cent of that insurance to bail you out."

"What insurance," Stiles says.

"From the fire?" Jackson says, like he's an idiot. "All those dead bodies had life insurance policies. Pretty suspicious, huh? Doesn't stop him leathering up like seventies softcore. But I'd do anything to get clean after you. Anyone."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Stiles says, disgusted. "Derek's the nicest guy on this campus. Not to mention he lost literally his whole family barely a year ago, and now someone–" Stiles stops, furious, incredulous. "How desperate are you to be a dick?"

"Call my lawyer," Jackson shrugs. "Find out."

"Na, you don't know crap," Stiles says, hitching his bag up his shoulder. "You're just dying to spit scum on Derek. I bet he's real competition withDanny."

"You shut up," Jackson snaps, scowling. "I'm not even–There's nothing wrong with it, but I'm not–"

"Straight as a slinky," Stiles says, patting him on the shoulder patronizingly. "Have a nice life."

* * *

Tall and blonde and Jackson's form of classy has Stiles drawing a giant blank in record time. Besides that, he's making no progress finding a matching tread.

Derek seems okay when Stiles checks in on him, back to his quiet, studious self. He's reading a collection of essays analyzing the deeper meaning of X-Men's Mystique; it's the most monotonous lecture Stiles has ever leaned against someone to read, and he copied off Scott's notes for twelve years. But Derek's riveted, pressing just a little closer into Stiles' side, humming contentedly when Stiles' arm eases around him, so Stiles stays, mouth tugging into something like a grin despite everything that's happened.

For a few seconds, the world doesn't seem that bad.

* * *

"Everything's gone to shit," Stiles tells his dad, leaning his palm hard against his forehead to stave off the oncoming headache. "You're the only good guy left in the world. You and Scott and Derek. Everyone else is all serial killers and abusive–"

"What happened?" Dad says calmly. He's sitting across a diner booth from Stiles, sifting cherry tomatoes from wilted lettuce like he's panning for gold.

"So Jackson Whittemore said this crap about Derek," Stiles says, savagely attacking a burger and fries. "About him being–About people messing him around. And I thought he was crazy, but it's true, Dad, there's people–He's used to it. People shoving him, stealing his stuff–Someone shattered his windshield right in front of him, and he wasn't even mad about it! He's just tired. He didn't even want the guy's name."

"But you got it," Dad says.

"Chris Argent," Stiles says. 'Course I did. Just because Derek thinks he doesn't deserve–But you're gonna do something, right? This shithead didn't even try to hide who he was. He looked right at Derek, just about spelled out his name for me. It was like he was taunting Derek. Like he's so sure we can't touch him, he doesn't even care–"

Dad sets down his fork, looking disturbed. "Something's not right here," he says. "What's he got on Derek? Why's he so sure he's invincible?"

"Dad," Stiles says, gulping hugely. "Dad, what if there's–"

"You can tell Derek right now that he has nothing to be ashamed of," Dad says, standing. "And I, I am going to have a talk with Mr. Argent."

"Check his sneakers," Stiles says grimly.

Argent comes back to Derek like a bad omen, says, "You're pressing charges?"

"Harassment," Stiles warns, getting in between them. Derek's eyes are fixed low, jaw tight.

"I don't care about you," he says, and glares when Stiles tries to take his arm. "What are you doing?"

"I'm just trying to help," Stiles says.

"I don't need your help," Derek says tightly. "I'm not wasting my time on an Argent."

"He broke your windshield," Stiles says.

"He can break a lot more than that," Derek says, fists sunk deep in his pockets. "I don't care."

Stiles swallows hard, says, "Derek, if he hurt–"

"Enough," Derek snaps. "Just–Stop, alright? I don't care. I don't. Care! So stop trying to throw me a fucking sympathy parade! Just leave me alone, Stiles."

He stalks off, glaring at nothing.

Stiles just stands there, rooted on the spot.

"You're gonna go down for this," he snarls at Argent.

"How well do you know Derek Hale?" Argent says, unimpressed.

"He's not the one bullying a college kid," Stiles snaps. "He doesnt owe anyone answers."

"You'd think that, wouldn't you," Argent says. "Once you see his true face, you'll understand."

Just like that Derek's back. "Stay the hell away from him. He's human."

"He better stay that way," Argent says darkly. Stiles' creases his brow, mystified. "We don't need another Whittemore."

"What's he–" Stiles starts, but the look on Derek's face stops him short. Derek's eyes are bright, mouth just parted. and all across his face–this terrible, heartwrenching guilt.

"C'mon," Stiles says, and grabs Derek's arm. "Let's lose this creep."

Derek lets himself be led.


End file.
